


Lullaby

by athena_crikey



Series: Songbird [4]
Category: Endeavour (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Magical Realism, Angst, Case aftermath, Drama, Gen, Goodnight Kiss, Supernaturally Attractive, h/c
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-01
Updated: 2018-03-01
Packaged: 2019-03-25 09:16:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,849
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13831125
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/athena_crikey/pseuds/athena_crikey
Summary: Occasionally there are cases that drive right up under the sternum and into the heart, slicing through everything in between.





	Lullaby

**Author's Note:**

> Warnings: child death

It’s five days before they find Olive Saunders’ body decomposing in the woods. 

Five days of newspaper stories and posters, five days of radio and television appeals. Five days of hopes and prayers and pleas, of midnight phone calls and door-to-door enquiries and search teams scouring neighbouring fields. 

In the end, none of it matters. 

She would have been exactly seven years and two weeks old the day they find her, the day Morse stands over her shallow grave and bites back bile and heartache. In the photos she had shoulder-length dark hair and pale skin dusted with freckles, her brown eyes playful and smiling. In death, the maggots have already descended to begin their work. 

The station, when they return to it, feels like an empty husk. The two dozen men who were drafted in to help with the search from County have returned to their billets, the CID has been stood down after days of back-to-back shifts, and the Saunders have been escorted home, their grief beyond words. After nearly a week of sharing desks and phones, cramming twenty men in a space meant for ten, there’s a hollowness to the vacant office – a kind of desolation. 

Jakes is already gone; he left almost immediately after returning from the scene of crime with a glassy look in his eyes, headed for the nearest pub. Which leaves Morse alone with Thursday, or the shell of him that’s left after five days with hardly any food or sleep.

After years – decades, in Thursday’s case – of coppering, the tough cases tend to roll off a detective’s leathery skin. But occasionally there are cases that drive right up under the sternum and into the heart, slicing through everything in between. For Morse, it had been Gull the opera lunatic. For Thursday, it’s Olive Saunders. 

It might be her resemblance to his own daughter, might be the parents’ vulnerability. It might have nothing to do with the girl and everything to do with Thursday feeling his age and watching his children prepare to leave home. Whatever it is, it means that the DI has hardly eaten or slept since she was reported missing, and has pushed his men harder than ever before to turn up any lead, any clue to her whereabouts. 

And now they’ve found her, dead in a copse of trees near Hinksey. 

It’s dark in the office. The lights are off, just the grey light of a cloudy day filtering in through the windows. Shadows are painted on the walls, lie like dark pools on the floor. The silence is unnerving. 

It’s late when Morse gets up from his desk where he’s been sitting alone with his thoughts and not much else, and knocks on Thursday’s open door. 

“We should be getting home, sir,” he says.

The inspector hasn’t shaved since yesterday and his tie is askew beneath a drooping shirt collar. His dark eyes, when he looks up at Morse, are bleak. Until now, Thursday has always been the one officer to keep to the right side of the divide between empathetic and emotionally overcommitted. Has always held onto his lifeline to the outside world.

Right now, he looks like a man who’s drowning. 

For a moment Morse thinks he will argue, that he’ll insist on remaining in the station to nurse his heartache. But then he sighs, pushes away from his desk and stands laboriously. His hands are white, skin loose – like an old man’s, Morse thinks suddenly, and feels a chill. He’s never thought of Thursday as old before – middle-aged, certainly, but still in his prime.

“I can drive myself,” Thursday says. 

“I’ve nowhere better to be,” replies Morse. He steps out of the inspector’s office before the latter can argue. In this state, he doesn’t want Thursday behind the wheel. 

It’s misting gently outside, just enough that Morse has to turn on the windscreen wipers occasionally. They drive in silence, the dull autumn light already fading. In the mist, Oxford looks like a city of ghosts, the world beyond the windscreen grey and indistinct. 

It’s a short drive to Thursday’s house. Morse parks the Jag at the kerb and turns to Thursday, letting the engine idle. It’s cool enough outside that the bonnet’s steaming, semi-transparent tendrils twisting through the damp air. 

At this point, usually Thursday either gets out to go home for the night, or invites Morse in for a feed. Tonight, Morse isn’t hungry – doesn’t feel he ever will be again, although he knows that with time that will change. But he also doesn’t feel ready for Thursday to walk out and end this day, curtail the tragedy they’ve both just lived through with nothing more than a nod. 

As if sensing Morse’s hesitation, Thursday looks up slowly, the brim of his trilby shadowing his eyes. “Want a drink, then?” he asks. 

“I’ll stop in for a minute,” answers Morse, and shuts off the engine.

  
***

At least one of the children is home; Morse hears the radio playing upstairs and feet moving over the floorboards. From the look of the damp coat on the hook it’s Sam, his coat larger and darker than Joan’s powder blue pea jacket. Thursday deposits his own coat and hat on the hook beside it, Morse also shrugging out of his outer layer and reaching it up.

The house smells of meat and spices – curry, Morse identifies hesitantly, still poor at tying smells to meals. Win is standing in the kitchen doorway in an apron; she takes one step out into the hallway and pauses at the sight of Thursday’s deadened eyes. 

“What’s wrong, love?”

“We found Olive Saunders.” The tone of his voice is the final nail in her coffin, grim and unmistakable. Win’s face drops and she comes through to rest a hand on Thursday’s shoulder, the pain on his face transferring to hers. 

“Oh no. That poor girl. Her poor parents.” She sighs. “Come on through to the den and get warmed up. You need some tea and brandy.” She pulls him towards the back of the house; he shakes his head. 

“Just stopped home for a quick shower and a change of clothes. I’ll fetch Morse a drink while I’m here.”

Morse looks to Thursday, surprised. Win’s frowning, full of concern. “You’ve hardly slept, Fred, not to mention had a hot meal. You can’t go back in just now. Wait ‘til tomorrow.”

“The work doesn’t stop, you know that. We’ve found her. Now we’ve got to nail the bastard who put her six feet under.” He shrugs away from Win, pushing past her down the hall. “Come on, Morse; I’ll fetch you that drink.”

Morse follows him hesitantly, passing Win. He stands on the edge of the kitchen, linoleum smooth under his toes, while Thursday searches in the upper cabinets and comes up at last with a bottle of brandy. “It’s the best that’s on offer,” he says, pouring out two glasses. Morse doesn’t comment. Win watches them go, one hand resting on the opposite elbow, mouth pinched. 

They take the brandy through to the den, Morse sitting on the edge of the sofa while Thursday folds himself into the easy chair. For a minute they drink in silence, Morse remembering that he doesn’t much care for brandy. 

“A little while ago, you told me I wasn’t any good to anyone dead on my feet,” he begins, setting the half-empty glass down on the coffee table and folding his hands between his knees. Thursday looks up, eyes flashing. 

“Going to throw my words back at me, are you lad?” asks Thursday, in a warning tone. 

“I don’t see any difference between now and then,” replies Morse.

Thursday sets down his own glass so hard it rings on contact with the table. His hand is shaking. “The difference is that it’s me.” 

“So you get to break the rules? Even the ones you set? You’re a poor leader if you do.”

“A girl is dead tonight, because we didn’t find her soon enough. That’s a wrong that can’t be righted, not by you or me. Seeing that the man who put her in the ground is punished is the next best thing.”

“No one’s arguing with that, sir,” says Morse, half-reaching out and then letting his hand fall away. “Just… have a rest first. Eat some dinner. There’s no rush.”

“Not now,” qualifies Thursday, staring him straight in the eye; Morse flinches. “No, there isn’t anymore.” His voice is hollow, his face drawn. He looks half-dead, exhaustion digging his grave for him. 

Morse swallows, but sits still and straight. “Her death isn’t our fault.”

“I’ve told myself that for years. Dozens of years, dozens of deaths. Dead children, dead adults, the young and the old and the sick. Those who can’t fend for themselves, who looked to us to protect them. Well, I’ve had enough. Enough of pretending there wasn’t more I could do – there’s always more. And if all I can do for Olive Saunders is put her killer behind bars, I’ll damn well do it.”

“Sir, you’re exhausted. You’re not thinking straight,” breaks in Morse. “Please, just let it go. Just for tonight. We’ll bring him in tomorrow, finish this then.”

Thursday looks at him, and Morse sees the exhaustion in his face, the brokenness. “You think I could sleep?” he asks, hoarsely, his eyes haunted. He stands, weaving back and forth; Morse hops to his feet and catches his elbow. 

Then, before Thursday can push him away, before he can read Morse’s intention, Morse forges all his worries and concerns and doubts into gut-twisting terror that runs hot through his veins – and kisses him. 

It takes an instant to take effect, an instant in which Thursday stares into his eyes, shocked and angry. Then he drops and Morse goes down with him, catching his weight and lowering him to the ground. 

The effort of downing Thursday leaves him shaking; at the sound of a creak from the hall he jumps, eyes wide and horrified. Win is standing in the doorway, looking down at the two of them. His heart skips a painful beat in his chest, pounding shards of ice into his arteries. He stays where he is, pinned by Thursday’s weight as by his own guilt and complicity. 

“I’m sorry,” he says, on his knees under Thursday’s dead weight. He’s trying to cradle Thursday’s head in the crook of his arm, trying to support the heavier man as best he can. He stares up at Win with panic in his eyes, feeling weak and skittish and not at all prepared for a confrontation. 

Win stays where she is, one hand resting against the doorframe. Morse folds entirely, putting Thursday down on the ground, his own shoulders shaking with the effort of supporting his weight.

“Oh love,” says Win, stepping in. “It’s not your fault. He’d be sick knowing what he’s forced you to.” She kneels down besides Fred, smoothing his hair. With her eyes downcast and her attention focused solely on her husband, Morse can make out how worried she is, forehead lined with it. 

This is what it is to have a family, he thinks. To share in times of joy, and times of pain. 

She looks up again, eyes deep and forgiving. “If you help, we can get him onto the sofa.”

Together they pull Thursday off the carpet and lay him down on the sofa, Win fussing about with a quilt and pillow. Morse, still feeling wrung out, stands off to the side with his arms crossed over his chest. Thursday is the last person he would ever have thought of knocking out – the one person he trusts not to abuse his position, his privilege. 

“You look done in,” says Win, breaking in on his thoughts. Her head is craned upwards from her place kneeling beside the sofa, one edge of the blanket between her fingers. He blinks, raising a hand to run down along his left cheekbone, feeling a little bemused. 

“I suppose I am.”

She tsks. “Of course you are. The both of you have been working around the clock. How much sleep have you had in the past five days?”

Morse considers it. Less than twenty-four hours, he imagines. “Not enough,” he says, simply. 

“Then you ought to get yourself home and put your head down. Fred will probably sleep through the night if he’s as tired as he looks; any gate, I’ll keep him home tonight. He has no cause going back to the station at this hour.”

_I’ve had enough_. Morse hears the echo of Thursday’s voice in his ears. He’s never heard the inspector so disconsolate, never imagined seeing him surrender to the darkness of the job like this. Never seen him so beaten down. Lying unconscious on the sofa, he looks weak and vulnerable, not at all the powerful, determined man Morse has come to know – come to rely on. For all he’s sure Win can look after him, leaving him alone feels disloyal.

“When he wakes up,” begins Morse hesitantly. 

“If he’s still not right, I’ll give you a ring,” says Win, rising from her kneeling pose to sit at Thursday’s side. She lays her hand lightly on his chest. “But after five days, whatever he said it was the exhaustion talking like as not. Don’t judge him for it.”

Morse feels a prickle of embarrassment; Thursday’s wife is asking him not to judge her husband, when here he just knocked the man out in front of her. It all seems terribly backwards. “I wouldn’t. I just…”

“You worry about him,” finishes Win. “He’s lucky to have you.”

“He may not think so tomorrow morning.”

Win straightens and looks up at him, eyes serious. “Do you know what the most dangerous kind of copper is? One who can’t think straight. He’s dangerous to others, but most of all to himself. The last thing I want is to see Fred out there on the streets like this. If he had his head screwed on properly, he would say the same. He never ought to have let it get this far – never ought to have put you in this position.”

“He’s my guv’nor; it’s my job to look after him,” replies Morse, simply. He’s never considered himself Thursday’s property – property doesn’t take it on itself to look after its owner.

Win gives him a gentle smile. “I’m glad he has you, Morse.”

Morse runs a rueful hand through his hair, turning to give Thursday one last glance. 

How he’s going to explain this to the inspector, he doesn’t know.

  
***

It’s Jakes’ job to pick up Thursday in the morning. As such Morse doesn’t see the inspector again until he walks into the CID office the next morning, looking slightly rough around the edges but infinitely better than the day before.

Thursday catches his eye from across the room and nods at his office. Morse stands and follows him in, Jakes giving him a curious look that intensifies when Morse shuts the door behind himself. Thursday’s seating himself behind his desk by the time Morse crosses the floor to stand in front of him. 

“I thought we needed a talk,” says Thursday, folding his hands over his blotter. For once, Morse can’t read him, can’t tell how angry he is, how betrayed. He stays silent, shifting his weight slowly from one foot to the other and nodding once.

“It’s my duty to look out for you. See that you do your job, and see that you’re done right by.” Thursday takes a breath, leaning forward and staring Morse in the eye. “Last night, I didn’t do right by you – as your superior, or your keeper. I let the job get to me – let Olive Saunders get to me. I could’ve hurt you in the process. It’s not a mistake I take lightly.”

“It wasn’t me I was worried about,” breaks in Morse.

“I know that. Makes it all the more commendable. Part of being a good subordinate is telling your boss when he cocks up royally, especially if it’s in his own interest.” 

“And that’s it? Just accolades?” asks Morse, nonplussed. Thursday raises his eyebrows.

“You’d rather sharp words? I’ll admit I wasn’t pleased when I woke up this morning; stewed for a fair while before Win set me straight. It was me that crossed the line first – you did what you had to. That’s the way I see it, so we’ll set it aside. It had better not happen again, though,” he adds, with a hard look. 

“Isn’t that up to you?” asks Morse, pushing the envelope. 

Thursday gives him a considering look, answering after a moment: “It’s up to the both of us. Pact?”

Morse nods. “Pact.” In the shadow of Olive Saunders’ death, the compromise seems fair. As does last night’s: a night of peace for Thursday, in exchange for a kiss. 

Thursday settles in behind his desk; Morse relaxes into a less upright posture. 

“Good. Then fetch Jakes in and tell me where you are with the case.”

END

**Author's Note:**

> Preview for WALTZ, coming next week:
> 
> When Jakes returns to the hotel around 9pm, Morse is already dressed.
> 
> He’s wearing a tailored tuxedo that fits him like a glove, broadening his slim shoulders and nipping in at the waist to emphasize his slender form. The trousers lie close to the curve of his arse and the strong muscles of his legs, coyly designed to hint at both hidden power and pleasure.
> 
> It’s a suit designed to put him on show, and it does. Even in the dim light of the hotel room he glows with an inner light, looking back over his shoulder as Jakes opens the door, caught unawares with his lip between his teeth.


End file.
